Page 43 of Play Nice

“Had you read it before?” he asks.

“Nope. My dad didn’t want us to. He made us promise. Link pinkies. Cross our hearts.”

“Makes sense. He’s not exactly the hero of the story.”

“You’ve read it?”

“A copy got passed around my high school.”

“I only read the first few chapters. I only found the first few chapters. The copy was so old it was falling apart; the glue in the binding was disintegrated or whatever,” I say, offering up the joint. He accepts it. “I can’t find the rest.”

“You could download it, if you’re curious.”

“Nah. It’s not available in digital. And it’s out of print. But it’s fine. I don’t care. Like, I’m not going to go out of my way to track down another copy. It’s not a particularly pleasant read. Not exactly a good time.”

“Huh. Yeah,” he says. “It’s fucked-up.”

“You’re going to have to be more specific, if you’re referring to my childhood.”

“No, just that, a lot of the second half of the book is about you.”

I take another swig of beer. And another. “And here I’d assumed the demon got top billing.”

“You’re up there,” he says. “I don’t know how much of it is true. But…fucked-up.”

The conversation isn’t fun anymore, but it’s an easy fix.

“Why did you come over here?” I ask him.

He leans forward, elbows on his knees. He turns his head and looks over at me. I want to run my tongue along his jaw. “To do this.”

“To sit outside and drink beer and get high under the stars while we talk about sad things? Poor us.”

“No. Well, yes. But mostly to look at you. And do this.” He reaches over and gently pulls one of my curls straight. “I’ve wanted to do that since I was a kid.”

It’s my turn to laugh. I let my head back and giggle like crazy. Then I grab his face and kiss him.

—

We stumble inside. He lifts my dress over my head, kicks off his Vans while I unbutton his jeans. They slide down to his ankles, and he trips. We fall back onto the couch.

He’s an excellent kisser and knows exactly how to use his hands. What luck to have him show up on my doorstep.

“Can I touch you?” he asks me. He waits until I say yes, until I whisper the word into his ear, then he slips his fingers between my thighs.

He doesn’t talk to me, which I appreciate. The next person to ask me, Yeah, you like that? is getting a firm no.

He makes me come with just his hands, and I could leave it at that, but I like him enough to go down on him. He weaves his fingers through my hair. He doesn’t pull, he’s not rough with me, but he’s not so gentle to turn me off. He warns me before he finishes.

All in all, a great hookup. No notes.

We get dressed and he opens two more beers for us. We drink them on the couch this time, my legs draped over his lap, his hands skimming my shins, my knees, my thighs. I play with his hair.

“Your hair is curly, too.”

“Not curly like yours. Not springy.”

“That’s true,” I say.